


Omissiō

by selfinduced



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: M/M, Things Unsaid, abandoned child Erik, people left out, that nebulous Erik-isn't-dead-AU we have all accepted as reality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 03:21:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17696693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selfinduced/pseuds/selfinduced
Summary: By afternoon he's convinced himself--and a growing pile of sandbags and three bruised and terrifyingly politeDora Milajewho haven't killed him probably only because of strict orders--that it's some cultural thing and it would be weird for him to call T'Challa out on it.





	Omissiō

The first time it happens, he doesn't react until T'Challa's probably halfway through his morning meeting. He woke up to realize he was still in T'Challa's bed a few hours ago but it was warm, T'Challa's arms and legs heavy on top of his own, and he'd decided it was fine to stay put for a minute.

He'd woken up again when T'Challa started moving around, but kept his eyes closed, soaking in Wakandan morning sunlight and the smell of flowers from the terrace garden--and okay, T'Challa's drawing on his back, the intoxicating brush of his mouth on his shoulders--and then the hand in his hair, scratching light on the back of his neck, making something impossibly warm curl up inside him as he stretched in response. He's a little caught up in it all, so it doesn't hit him right away, only after T'Challa's already gone and the room is quiet and his heart is the only thing being ridiculously noisy--"I will be back soon kitten, sleep well."

And instead of snorting or rolling his eyes like he has before when his hook ups thought they could give him pet names because they woke up together one time, all of his insides had lurched sideways at once, making him freeze, making him feel things, and really, fuck T'Challa and all the ways he's continuing to fuck up his life.

And his body for responding. (And the way thinking 'fuck T'Challa' and of his own body at the same time is completely derailing and he can't stop thinking of all the stupid shit he'd said last night while getting fucked--and that's it. Now he's caught up in thinking of the way T'Challa looks when getting fucked, those impossibly flexible legs folded up and his head thrown back, fingers digging into his biceps, the soft, husky way he murmurs "N'Jadaka"--)

 

By afternoon he's convinced himself--and a growing pile of sandbags and three bruised and terrifyingly polite _Dora Milaje_ who haven't killed him probably only because of strict orders--that it's some cultural thing and it would be weird for him to call T'Challa out on it. Drawing attention and making it seem like a big deal when they're just--hooking up.

He'll just wait until the next time, if there is a next time, and do something appropriately derisive like tell him to shut the fuck up. That's probably more subtle and won't make him look like he spent all day thinking about it--the warm, deep, morning roughness of T'Challa's voice when he said it--fuck. He looks up dazedly at the sky as Ayo's staff cracks him on the cheek and lands him flat on his back. This is what happens when you fuck a Disney prince. He says stupid shit that makes your knees weak when you think about it later and his bodyguards get the upper hand in beating you up because you're distracted.

 

"Ayo!" Speak of the devil. T'Challa's voice has a trace of frantic to it that's as gratifying as it is infuriating. "Was that," T'Challa steps into view, voice lilting with his accent, "completely necessary?"

"He should have dodged." Ayo lifts her chin, resting her staff on the ground. 

T'Challa bends down to smile at him, hand soft under the split skin on his cheek. "So you should have."

"I've had worse." He murmurs, staring up at T'Challa's dark endless eyes and feeling no pain.

"Nevertheless." T'Challa raises his hand in dismissal to the _Dora_ , who file out, and reaches to help Erik up. "We have an evening meal to attend."

He doesn't take the hand, jumping to his feet on his own and striding into his quarters. T'Challa follows him, of course. 

 

"Here, let me see," T'Challa edges between him and the sink, cleaning the cut with something that appears out of his sleeve, flipping it to the other end to squeeze out some gel to close the skin up after. Nice tech, he thinks, but his whole body is busy leaning into T'Challa's hand, his touch having the usual effect of making Erik warm and slow and wanting. Like he wasn't balls deep inside the man less than twelve hours ago.

He watches T'Challa's mouth press closed as he finishes, swallowing as he watches him lean over, kiss softly on Erik's cheek under the cut and bruise, near the corner of his mouth. 

"Better," T'Challa says, lips barely brushing over his mouth, and he takes the bait, has a hand in T'Challa's hair gripping rough to pull his head back and kiss him hard, all teeth and tongue and a day full of frustration, kneeing his legs apart to grind him into the edge of the sink, lift him on the counter and pull at his formal robes, needing skin.

It doesn't seem to teach T'Challa anything. If anything, he's now full on grinning, laughing into the kiss and tugging at Erik's dreads, holding his face and looking fond, which is--

He shoves at the pant-legging thing T'Challa is wearing, pulling it off him and shutting T'Challa up with fingers in his mouth, making him get them wet so they can be slick for his own cock. He strokes T'Challa fast and merciless, swallowing up every gasp, reveling in the way his laughing eyes go half closed with heat, and of course T'Challa ruins it: "Did you miss me that much, kitten--" he jerks, cutting off and making a sharp sound and arching off the counter as fingers enter him without warning, but then he's right back to biting his lower lip and looking at Erik with amusement. "I missed you too," he rocks into the fingers, folding a leg up for a better angle. _This is impossible._

 

He gives up on communicating anything else with words and focuses on fucking T'Challa instead, pushing into him as soon as it seems like he's relaxed enough to fit cock into T'Challa like words he's not going to be able to say any time soon--probably ever. Fucking them into him, steady and relentless, until the smirk drops off T'Challa's face, and his mouth stays open in a continuous moan.

He bites over a mark he left on T'Challa's collarbone last night, kissing it and moving over to make another one closer to his throat, where the edge of his collar will be. 

"N'Jadaka," T'Challa's hand on his face is shaky, slipping down to dig nails into his shoulders, drawing blood. 

"I don't have advanced healing your highness," he drawls, not even wincing, the pain just sharpening the pleasure of T'Challa's heat tight around his cock, walls velvet soft and more possessing than the marks on his skin. "How do you want me to explain where I keep getting these marks every morning?"

"You--" T'Challa starts but Erik thrusts hard and deliberate, making him moan instead, smirking when it works. 

"Should I tell them their king is scratching me up when I fuck him? Hm?" 

 

T'Challa looks at him, sharp and knowing, as if he's thinking way too much for a man getting his ass fucked. "Is that something you would want?" He licks at the blood he drew earlier on his shoulder, "is that why you are marking my neck where the sherwani's collar will barely cover it before dinner?"

He doesn't know how this got so out of control. One minute he has everything--T'Challa's uncontrolled moans and cock leaking between them as he's fucking into him and biting dark bruises into his skin, and the next--T'Challa is asking him questions and controlling the rhythm and cupping his face and kissing sweetly at the side of his mouth, licking in just a bit as he whispers, "You do not know, do you kitten? You do not know, what you want." He bites down on Erik's lower lip, drawing blood again, "Would you like me to tell you?" He moves his ass up and down with thigh strength that's more than powerful enough to crush a man's throat.

Erik shivers and hides his face in T'Challa's throat, not answering.

 

"You want," T'Challa's lips move against his ear, voice thrumming low and soft and even more ruthless than his hips, "to belong."

**Author's Note:**

> I have all these pieces meant to be part of bigger epics but who knows when I'm gonna finish them, so here, have a piece. The ship tag needed more fodder. /salutes


End file.
